SafetyPinned to His Backpack
by PocketPamela
Summary: Mike Ross was used to watching his own back. He was used to putting those he cared about before himself. He had done it practically his whole life.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Wow, so I don't know where this came from.. but I wrote it anyway. I absolutely adore Suits, and I don't know, I was inspired by the fight Trevor and Mike had in episode 3. And this was born. Let me know if it sucks;] – The title is the first word in The Used's Bird and the Worm. It's been on repeat for about 14 hours now.**

Mike was used to watching his own back. He was used to putting those he cared about before himself. He had done it practically his whole life.

When he was 8, his mother died in a car accident. He often tells people that both of his parents died that night. In his mind, they did. For the next four years, Mike lived with his father in a small apartment, far away from his childhood home. His father didn't deal well with his mother's death, and that was understandable. Mike learned to look after himself, while his father drank himself into oblivion. He kept his father happy, their apartment clean, and could cook like a pro by 9. He mastered hangover remedies quickly, knowing what words to say when, and Greg Ross was grateful for the little punk. He worked odd hours, bringing in the household income, but Mike was the real head of the house. He dealt with his mother's death quietly; becoming a solemn, well-mannered boy, and his teachers were often impressed by his work ethic. Then his father died.

Greg Ross was a good man, but grief eventually gets the best of people. He, too, died in a car accident, drunk, and Mike went to live with his grandmother.

He wasn't used to letting go, to not doing the work, but his grandmother soon broke him of most of his habits. He ate more, he slept more, and was still the solemn little boy, but the weight of the world was not on his shoulders any more. He lived to help his grandmother, because even though she was strong, she was still aging, and Mike felt as if he needed to pay her back for taking control of his life when she didn't have to. He still cooked, and he still cleaned, but not all the time and that was enough for him.

At 18, his grandmother needed to be put into a home. She had some money saved away, but he knew he needed to work in order to keep taking care of her. She went to the retirement home, he got a cheap apartment, and earned money any way he could. His eidetic memory came in handy during his high school days, earning him a spot at the top of his class, but he knew there was no way he could go to college. He took odd jobs, and watched his back, because cheap apartments are cheap for a reason, and he was surrounded by drugs and gangs. He began to automatically do a visual sweep of every room he walked into, because he needed to be _safe_. He had to watch out for himself.

Years passed, and bills were paid however they could, and Mike met Trevor and Jenny. He was held afloat again, they kept him from drowning in his routine of _work-protect-sleep_. Trevor gradually immersed himself in the world of Mike's lawless neighbors; he wanted a way in, while all Mike wanted was a way out. They clashed, and Mike ended up keeping secrets from Jenny. He had no clue what to do anymore; was everyone in his life going to die or get into things Mike couldn't protect them from?

Mike kept the secret to protect Jenny. He was looking out for the people he cared about, like he always had. In the safety of his bedroom at night, he sometimes dreamed of a world where he came first, where he could do whatever without having to worry so much. He didn't want his life as a protector, as a body guard, anymore.

Mike met Harvey running from the cops, trying to help his grandmother and Trevor out. He hadn't meant for things to go horribly wrong, he hadn't meant to almost be caught by the police. But Harvey threw Mike a life vest; the way out he desperately sought. So he took it. It was a way to help his grandmother stay in a place where people could take care of her, and it was his way out of all things ugly. But he didn't want to turn his back on Trevor, like Harvey had ordered, because even though he was selfish and bad and an anchor, he was _Trevor_. And Mike helped Trevor.

Jenny found out about Trevor, and Mike knew it would happen, it was inevitable. All things inevitably saw the light of day. He expected Jenny to be mad, to hate him, so he was prepared. She was just one more person he tried to protect and ended up failing to do so.

Trevor lying to Jenny was low, and he went over to tell Trevor that. He went to tell Trevor that his life didn't need to be full of drugs and lies. He wanted to help.

Things never went the way Mike expected them to. He should know that by now.

"What matters is that you don't help me out." Trevor s declared, anger clear in his voice. Mike stood there, letting the angry words wash over him. He did the one thing he had never done before, he gave up. Trevor obviously didn't want his help, so there was really nothing else he could do.

"Okay, but the least you could do is be honest with Jenny." He had to try, for Jenny.

Trevor threw angry words back at him, portraying him as the bad guy. Bitterly saying that Mike wanted Jenny. Claiming Mike thought he was better than him. Mike had never realized that Trevor was so insecure.

"Maybe that's because I am." Mike was in Trevor's face, standing up for himself. He had had enough with Trevor's mind games, and his lies. He didn't want to be a part of it any more. He knew he was worth it, he knew he was _good_, he knew he was better than a liar, a lowlife.

If Mike had been paying attention to his surroundings, like he had trained himself to be, if he had been _aware_, he would have realized that messing with Trevor at that moment was a bad idea. Standing up for himself was important, but to do so at that time would get him nowhere. Trevor had been smoking, drinking, and if Mike had noticed, he also would've remembered, because he always remembered, that while his deceased father was a quiet drunk, Trevor was an angry one.

But Mike wasn't paying attention.

Trevor glared, and suddenly Mike is flying into a table, landing on the empty beer bottles Trevor had piled up. He realized his mistake, but it was too late. And that was his life.

Trevor had him pinned down, throwing punches left and right, tattooing his anger into Mike's skin. It felt like rain.

Mike was used to being hurt; he had been for most of his life. But that didn't stop him from wishing it would stop.

It didn't.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: HOWDY. Chapta Dos! **

***hides*I'm hyper when I'm typing this, so yaknow, typos and grammatical fails and stuff that sucks/doesn't make sense is all due to the fact that Vitamin Water Energy actually works. This is slightly like, AU, because I made Mike work for Pearson Hardman for months, when the whole Mike/Trevor blowout happened pretty early in his career.**

**Thanks for the reviews! It means a lot to me. And if you didn't review, then, well.. that's okay, because I really didn't want your opinions anyway. **

He was lying on a hard surface, which wasn't all that new for him. He had spent countless nights on the ground or in bed with a hardcover book as a pillow. As of late, he was also used to waking up slumped over at his Pearson Hardman desk. He didn't mind, in fact, it was oddly reassuring for him. He was on something solid, something that could withstand pressure and remain in place; firm. Resolute.

He felt the ground underneath his cheekbones, felt it digging into his ribs, his knees. Safe.

Soon after, he remembered how he ended up on the ground, because he always remembered. Trevor, safe Trevor, had beaten him after he had stood up for himself. So much for friends. He vaguely remembers saying as much, and Trevor kicking him out.

So that's where he was. On the ground, outside Trevor's apartment.

Simultaneously pushing himself up and opening his eyes, he felt pain. Pain unlike any he had felt before. Angry, white-hot, gasoline fire burning pain. All over his body. He slumped over, overwhelmed, and slightly confused. He had been beaten up more times in his life than he cared to admit; being a genius with a less-than-impressive physique had its downfalls. But he had never felt _this _bad afterwards; sure, he was sore, but he could still get up and move around.

His first rational thought after acknowledging the pain was 'My best friend did this.' Who was he supposed to call now? Trevor had always been his go-to guy. Jenny was too mad to help, and he didn't expect her to. He had screwed up and hurt her, and he had to live with that. She could move on and live a better life if she didn't hear from him, anyway.

That left.. Who, exactly? That was a disturbing thought that shook Mike to the core. Who could he call? His grandmother was in a retirement home, so as much as she loved him, she couldn't help. He considered this, lying out on the ground in front of Trevor's door. He had a mental list of everyone who had helped him before, and it was, unsurprisingly short. His mom, deceased, his dad, deceased, his grandmother, bedridden, Jenny, ignoring him, Trevor just beat him up, so he was a no. His roommate from his first semester of college lived in San Diego, so he was a no. His 5th grade teacher had helped him understand division, but he didn't think that Mr. Longstone could help him much.

Maybe he should have gotten a dog; dogs are loyal. As a kid, he always wanted a St. Bernard, because they were known for their reliability and strength and rescue skills. He, after his mother died, always wanted to be rescued, and he always wanted a friend. He wanted attention. And a dog seemed like a perfect way to get that.

A dog could help him right now, except he doesn't have one. Who could he call?

As if God had heard his questions and finally decided to take pity on Mike, his phone began ringing. He moved his hand towards it slowly, working through the pain, because really, what else could he do?

Grasping his phone with weak, trembling fingers, he read 'Harvey' on the screen and it clicked—that's who would help.

"Harvey," he breathed, pressing the call button. Relief. Harvey was a lot of things: strong, The Boss, solid, The Best, clean lines and slicked back hair and vanilla white smile and _safe._ "Thank god."

"Mike? Where the hell are you?" His voice was warm and smooth and cocoa and grounding. It helped Mike concentrate.

Wait. If Harvey was calling asking where he was, then he must be late for work. Work-the next day. He had shown up at Trevor's late evening after work, and it was already time for him to be in the office? His cheeks felt wet. Tears. He made a weird sound—a 'please' and 'help' and 'why' and 'goddamn' all mixed and jumbled together. He felt like he was speaking a different language.

"Mike?"

He could have died. He could have died; beaten to death by his best friend, right outside said friend's door. The worst part was that Trevor didn't care. That hurt as much as the throbbing, constant_, ice-fire-pain_ running through his veins.

"Mike? God, kid, where are you? You're not at the office and—"

Mike's mouth worked without him telling it to, forming hollow words that once in his life meant the world. "Archstone Apartments. Bronx. Third floor, room 24A. I'm outside that apartment; Trevor's." I almost died Harvey. I'm dying, Harvey. It hurts so much. Can you help me?

He briefly wondered if he lost his job. He's a rookie associate; they can't be late to work without consequences.

Lying on the floor, he promised he'd make it up to Harvey. Harvey helped him out of the drugs-lies-violence part of his life, but he jumped back in, and god, he was sorry. He started to close his eyes, because he was tired, so tired, but Harvey's voice invaded Mike's brain again, scattering his thoughts. "Mike, I'll be right there, okay? Stay on the phone with me."

Something in Harvey's voice made Mike want to stay on the phone with him; because Harvey seemed worried. And Mike, even though he had only been working for Harvey for a few months, knew that his boss never outwardly showed any emotion other than victory. He wasn't exactly sure what Harvey was even talking about on the phone, he couldn't focus that much. But he made noises of encouragement every so often, a "Yeah," or "Mhm," so Harvey knew he was listening.

Harvey Spector wasn't lying when he told Mike he could read people. It helped him with his job, but at that moment, he almost wished to be oblivious. It was 8:20 at Pearson Hardman and Mike hadn't been there. Harvey had called him, intending to yell at his associate. But Harvey's name was said like a prayer when Mike answered, and his breath caught in his throat.

Harvey sometimes, in the darkness of night, allowed himself to dream_—ponder—_about Mike saying his name like that. But it was all wrong, Mike's breathing was short and shallow, gasps, and that wasn't normal. Harvey was excellent at observing, and that's how he knew Mike's breathing pattern. _Yeah._

Harvey pushed that observation to the side for a moment; waiting for the stream of words that he was sure would follow: "Sorry, Harvey, I just woke up, the case kept me up, I'll be right there, please, don't fire me." But all that came was a strangled "Thank god."

And Harvey was worried, because that did not sound like Mike. Sure, it was his voice, but Mike was young and excited and _alive_.

Mike didn't thank god that Harvey called him because he was late to work. Mike didn't breathe fast and short; he breathed slow and even and relaxed. "Mike, where the hell are you?" His protective instincts were putting him on edge; there was something wrong and it was Mike, and something wrong with Mike was unacceptable. The kid was a puppy; no one ever hurts puppies..

..Except angry owners. Irresponsible owners. Angry and irresponsible and Mike's life—

Trevor. It had to be Trevor. Why did good people attract bad people? But, of course, Harvey could already answer that question; he didn't need to ask it. Harvey thinks of himself as the bad that is attracted to the good, there was something just so _stunning _about people who volunteered at soup kitchens and made monthly payments to ASPCA and _cared_ about the world they lived in. He supposed it was instinctual for mankind; going for all that is good and light.

And Mike was the definition of _good _and _light._

The sound that Mike makes in response to his question has Harvey propelling himself from his office, ignoring Donna's questioning look and mouthing 'Ray', before heading for Pearson Hardman's elevator. He doesn't need to worry about what will happen to the appointments he has today; Donna was, in fact, the best woman he had ever met. And if he were straight, he'd be married to her by _yesterday._ His kickass receptionist will have seen his blatant display of emotion, and take it upon herself to cancel all his appointments, smoothing over any problems that come up. His mind doesn't focus his job at Pearson Hardman for more than the necessary amount; he's already back to thinking about Mike. That had become a common occurrence as of late.

"Mike?" Harvey was pacing back and forth in front of Pearson Hardman now, waiting for Ray to show up. He still clung to the fact that even though Mike sounded absolutely wrecked, he hadn't outright said it. Maybe it was all a big misunderstanding, and Harvey would yell at Mike for worrying him and getting him out of the office for no reason. "Mike? God, kid, where are you? You're not at the office and—"He was cut off by Mike's hoarse voice rattling off a location. "Trevor's." That confirmed that the bastard who had taken advantage of his associate was behind this. Ray had shown up, and smiled slightly at Harvey. Donna must have warned him that Harvey was _not_ in the mood to be fucked with, not even in the mood for pleasantries, _damn, that woman was intuitive. _He quickly told Ray the address that Mike gave him, and then went back to speaking on the phone. "Mike, I'll be right there, okay? Stay on the phone with me."

Harvey honestly couldn't tell anyone what he talked about with Mike on the ride over. He was anxious to just get there and solve _all _Mike's problems. He was, though, relieved when he heard Mike's halfhearted attempts at keeping the conversation going.

When Ray eventually stopped outside of a shady looking apartment building, Harvey didn't think twice about running into it, forgoing the elevator for the stairs. Half of the doors on the second floor didn't have numbers on them, so Harvey was lost. Turning the corner, he stopped dead in his tracks at the sight before him. Mike Ross, the epitome of innocence, was on the ground, looking like death. He was still in his suit, but it was almost unrecognizable. Whipping out his phone, dialing 911 and giving them his location before hanging up, ignoring the lady's calming voice stating that he should "stay on the phone until help arrives," he knelt by his associate, cradling his head in his lap.

"Harvey," he said, again, like a prayer. Like he was an angel sent from heaven.

It was at that exact moment that Harvey swore that once he had nursed Mike back to health, Trevor would be sorry he _ever_ dared to mess with someone Harvey Spector cared about.

***puppy dog eyes and charming smile* reviews?**


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm so sorry you guys! I get distracted way too easily. I hope you like this! More soon, promise!**

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><p>Mike couldn't move, and he wasn't sure he could breathe either. But, somehow, he knew he was making noises while Harvey's voice buzzed in his ear. He clung to his phone, because really, that's all he had left to hold until Harvey came. He wasn't used to feeling that useless, but he had used the last of his strength to open his phone and to be honest, he was sure that he was about thirty seconds away from passing out. He vaguely wondered what would happen if he just died, because at the moment, living sucked. And it hurt. <em>God, it hurt.<em>

He was positive he blacked out during the phone call more than once, but that's only because he heard Harvey yelling, sounding even more worried than before. And then he heard rhythmic stomps coming from his phone, and figured Harvey was running up the stairs to meet him. Really, he figured Harvey was the smartest person he knows, because the couple who like to have Elevator Sex would probably eat him alive. The stairs were much more efficient.

The last thing he registers is Harvey's voice.

_Harvey's here, it's okay, _he thinks_, I'll be okay. _And then he drifts.

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><p>Mike Ross could tell you almost anything: if he had read it, he knew it, and could tell you it. He remembers everything. It's sometimes a curse, sometimes a blessing, and at times, Mike really wishes he was without it.<p>

Right now though, he feels naked without the concrete feeling of remembrance. Upon opening his eyes, his brain supplies the words 'hospital', 'injured', and '_painpainpain'_. He knows instinctively that he's lying down; therefore, he knows that he's the one who's injured.

He just can't remember how, or why. He can't remember the reason that he's in pain, he can't remember who brought him here, and he can't even remember what he was doing that was got him hurt. He's running through statistics lightning fast, hoping that a word sparks his memory; that once he thinks a word like "burglar" or "accident", his brain will supply a stream of images that lead to this point.

It doesn't.

He tries to move past the chilling revelation that he's forgotten something that could be vital, important to his survival. If he knows how he was hurt, maybe he could deal with the pain better. The confusion and constant, throbbing heat burns him; he's overwhelmed by it. He next focuses onto the easy stuff—what was the last day he remembered? Tuesday. The last thing he ate? Cold chicken ramen noodles. The last time he saw Gram? Sunday. The president of the United States? Obama. The year? 2011.

He's Michael James Ross. He's an associate at Pearson Hardman. He has Gram. He's twenty-seven. He's currently in New York City, and he's grateful, so grateful, that he hasn't lost it all.

"_To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks..."_

He remembers. He just can't remember what led to the pain.

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The pain is endless, Mike comes to discover. He can't handle it, his brain can't –won't—compute it. He stuck in a loop: he comes to awareness, recognizes the ceiling of the hospital, the sounds, the smell. He acknowledges the pain. It consumes him. His mind shuts down. It's a coping mechanism, he knows it is. One thing is for certain, they aren't giving him enough medication. At all.

The worst part is remembering. He remembers the pain, and it comes back. His brain is solely focused on it; the one thing that's saved his ass at Pearson Hardman more than once will be his undoing.

He swears he'll go insane if it doesn't stop.

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><p>After five rounds of the excruciating pain, in essence, taking over his body, Mike learns to block his senses. He cuts out his sight and sound when he comes to. They're the main triggers, and he doesn't need them much, anyway. Seeing the ceiling of a hospital without knowing why you're there is slightly disconcerting, and he hasn't figured out to think well—never mind trying to speak, ask. He somewhat detaches from his limbs, inwards, only allowing himself to stay in his head. It allows him to think.<p>

_He really needs to take up yoga. And maybe meditate more often._

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><p><em><em>**What did y'all like? Not like? Review! **


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